Just had moved to the edge of the dais but he hadn’t left it. Silt stood awkwardly at the pulpit. He faced the crowd at an unusual angle, seemingly afraid of putting his back to Just.
“Well,” Just spoke, “go ahead. Say your piece before we kill you.”
Silt’s youthful face compressed to a scowl and he leaned forward with both hands upon the pulpit. “You think yourself powerful?” he spat. “You lord over the rest of us as though we exist at your approval. And it is not only you, Just. It is all of you. You elite few; the First, the Second, and all those of the older generations.”
Silt paused, his gaze drifting over his audience. “In service to my fool of a master, I have been forced to kill. Our pantheon is weak. At its heart lies the God of Justice, a pathetic wretch too weak to uphold his own laws. He passes judgment over mortals and gods alike, but when it comes time to fulfill his sentences, he cannot. He makes me kill mortals in his stead.” He turned his eyes on Just. “Tell me, master, why should I fear your threats? What reason does the headsman have to fear the judge? For years, I have done your dirty work. And what has been my reward? Fear and disrespect from my family, titles of mockery and disgust: Silt the Slayer. Silt the Murderer.”
“And my personal favorite,” Just interrupted, “Silt, the Bitch of Justice.”
“I am not your lapdog!” Silt hissed, his head whipping to face Sybil’s brother. “And tonight, you will learn the truth of that. In spite of your ineptitude, I have grown strong. Indeed, I have profited from your weakness. There is power in death, and while dispensing your justice, I learned of this power. The blood of a mortal strengthens us. It gives us energy and vigor. It is like an ever burning fuel that courses through the veins. I shared this knowledge with many of you. And many of you laughed in my face, or cringed in disgust.”
“Because, aside from being despicable,” Just countered, “your foolish beliefs are what drove the Smith mad.”
“Smith was weak!” Silt hissed. “The blood sings to us. It entices us. He was not strong enough to resist its call, and he became greedy with lust. If we must speak of blame, then tell me why you did nothing. You did not stop me when I spoke my thoughts. You did not stop Smith when he ravaged Vigil. You admit yourself that you have failed because of your inaction. But I have not failed. When you refused to stop the Smith, I took it upon myself.”
“And killed another god in the process!” Just’s anger seemed strong enough to shake the entire room. “Could you not restrain him? Could you not persuade him?”
Silt shook his head, almost looking sad, and when he spoke, he spoke slowly. “He could not be dissuaded… He was different. His mind gone.” Silt turned his gaze back to the room as his voice picked up speed. “But I do not regret my actions,” he said. “For they have been my vindication. You must understand, to kill a mortal is bliss, but to kill a god is rapture. There is power in the blood of a god, and tonight, I do not stand before you as a mere godling. I am no longer an apprentice to an unworthy master. I have ascended. I am Silt, the God of Punishment – the only true form of justice, and after tonight, I shall wear the title. I will be Just.”
Quiet murmurs resonated through the chamber as Silt paused to let his challenge descend on his audience. All eyes gravitated to Just, as all eyes do right before blood spills, but Just did not seem to care. Rather, he sighed emphatically, eyes closed, arms stretching toward the ceiling in an exaggerated yawn. Once finished, he blinked, drew one hand to his mouth and slouched forward, as if to hide his embarrassment. He motioned apologetically for Silt to continue.
“My pardons apprentice,” he said. “My unworthiness is beginning to make me sleepy. You may continue.”
Silt’s eyes became thin slits. As he continued, Galina leaned over to whisper in Sybil’s ear. “I do not know Just’s game, but this will escalate quickly.”
“I’m going to find Mother,” Sybil said. Things were getting out of hand.
Galina sniffed. “May as well. She deserves to see the destruction she’s caused.”
“And what of you?”
“I will remain. I will not miss my chance at vengeance.”
The anger in her sister’s voice set Sybil on her feet. Her thought was that Mother’s presence would diffuse the situation, but she was beginning to think even that wouldn’t help. She did not think Galina would be dissuaded from violence.
“Don’t do anything rash,” Sybil pleaded.
Galina turned a glare on her, but said nothing.
Sybil stared back at her before slipping away through the pillars and into the aisle leading to the western hall.
As she pushed her way through the doors and continued to the hall that led to Mother’s offices, a loud crack reverberated through the chamber. The sound had come from the main hall. Screams rose up behind her. Panicked, Sybil ran. She rushed through the next set of doors with such force that it sent them crashing into the walls. She entered a wide hallway, lined with more marble. She heard feet trotting on the stones, but in her panic ignored them. As she passed an intersecting passage, a body pounded into her, throwing her from her feet. Stars stole her vision as she rolled once across the floor. Her assailant groaned as he shambled to his feet.
“I am sorry, Mistress,” her apprentice said. “I did not see you coming.” The boy’s face was covered with sweat and his whole body shook as if it were desperate to be moving.
Sybil propped herself against the wall, trying to subdue the headache and vertigo. “My boy, you are in a panic.”
“It is no longer safe in there,” he said, nodding to the hallway behind him.
“What has happened?”
“Silt was talking about his victims and Galina attacked him. It has started a riot. Fortunately, I was near the doors to the eastern hall. When I saw two cousins throwing one another against a pillar I decided it best to leave.”
“But you’re shaking.”
“It was a quick decision,” he dismissed. “I will be fine. Here, let me help you to your feet.” Her apprentice offered his hand and she accepted it. Gripping his forearm, she pulled to right herself, but as she did so, she felt a vibration of energy. Half way up, her legs toppled as pain blossomed just above her heart. Her eyes dropped to the wound. Blood leapt from flesh to flesh; a jet of red sprinkling the boy’s fingers, in his hand, a solid iron hilt. In shock and pain, she drew a deep breath.
“So, you breathe after all,” her apprentice whispered. The pressure in her breast was excruciating as the boy retracted the narrow, rounded blade of the stiletto. The hiss of escaping air rattled from the cut. He had pierced her lung.
“That is good,” he continued. “The poison will spread and ease your pain.”
But Sybil did not need to breathe – not to live and not to speak. Thinking fast, she drew another heavy breath for the boy’s sake. Numbness began to fill her.
“Why?” she asked. A trying night. Tears forged trails down her face. She had loved this boy. She had trusted him. Sybil had had many apprentices over the decades, but this boy had been different. He had come to her at such a young age… He had only been ten when she’d taken him on, and for the past twelve years, she had raised him as her own. This boy was the closest thing she had to a son. They had studied together. They had tinkered together. She had been his mentor and his teacher.
“If I say, it will only hurt you more,” the boy said. “Just close your eyes and accept your fate.”
“Tell me!” she gasped. “I must know. Please. I must know why. Did our work mean nothing to you? Did these years mean nothing?”
It was difficult to breathe, but she continued the charade.
“They mean everything to me,” he said. “I love what we do. It is all that makes me whole. But I cannot live forever in your shadow.”
“My shadow? I have given you every opportunity.”
“But you have taken the most important opportunity.” Tears formed in his eyes. “I have spoken with my father and he has shown me the truth. The older ge
nerations have forced us into servitude. We toil in your names, and in return, you withhold your knowledge.”
“What kind of teacher gives away every answer?” Sybil challenged. With her wounded lung, it was difficult to speak the traditional way, but she did so anyway. “Knowledge must be earned, it cannot be given. If I taught you what I knew, it would kill you. I have seen it before. What is the point of our art if every variable is known, if I give you knowledge that you’d be unable to understand?”
The boy looked at her accusingly. “And what is the point if it forever stagnates? If it has no room for growth? Silt is right. The old never die. You force us into apprenticeship to keep us from true power. You want it only for yourselves. You say the apprenticeship protects us, but it keeps us from godhood. You have taken our birthright.”
“Oh, my boy, there is no such conspiracy. Not from me. Not from Just. Not from Mother. It was she who set me on my path. It was Just who encouraged my inquisitive nature. We have ever worked for the family.”
The boy slumped forward and held his head in his hands. He wiped his nose with a sleeve. “No,” he said, “you do not understand. What is the point of questioning, what is the point of trial and error, of experiments and science if you already hold the role? There cannot be two Gods of Alchemy. There is no place for me. There is no throne for me. And yet I love our work. So, what can I do? Our art is one of knowledge and manipulation, but most importantly it is about progress. It needs to be fluid. It needs change and growth. Science cannot progress if it stays forever rooted within your grip.”
“Silt has twisted your mind,” Sybil breathed. “There are many thrones. There are many paths to power and death is never progress.” With great effort, she raised her hand to his face and lifted his chin. She stared into his eyes and saw the pain and guilt. “I have failed you,” she said, “for I failed to teach you what mattered most. Our aspect may be about progress, but progress is not most important. Life is most important. We study to create, to heal the sick, to better the lives of others.”
“And we study because we enjoy it.”
The image before her was the perfect encapsulation of anguish. A myriad of emotions battled across the surface. Tears flowed freely from their ducts and she felt each drop as it struck the hand still holding his chin. His mouth tightened and loosened with each quiver of his lips. He lifted the hand he had used to stab her. What he saw there, Sybil could not say, but it had made his decision. The hand became a fist.
“But I must have the role.”
Her eyelids compressed together tightly, as if to pinch loose the last of her tears. The heel of her palm brushed against smooth flesh as she drew the hand across his neck. Liquid surged in the wake of the razor thin blade. As her apprentice collapsed forward, she positioned her arms to catch him in a loving embrace. A strange euphoria echoed through her, from palm to head, before grief devoured it. She laid the boy against her shoulder and held the back of his head, letting the blood trickle onto the fabric of her dress. The steady patter of her tears upon his tunic mirrored the effect. She could feel the boy’s heart slowing in his chest. Still holding the razor, she punished herself by clutching her fingers to the blade as she let out a pleading sob. As it cut into her hand, she gripped tighter. The pain was not enough. Not for this. There would never be enough pain to set this right.
She didn’t know how long she sat there.
“My daughter, you must come away from that now.”
Sybil lifted her head. Mother stood before her, wearing her porcelain mask and the heavy black robes of mourning. Her painted flesh was completely covered.
“Mother… He… he tried to kill me.”
“Yes, but you must put that aside for now.” Mother crouched before her. She took Sybil’s hand from the apprentice’s back and held it by the forearm. She pried open the fingers and pulled free the thin, hilt-less blade. “One of your sister’s?”
Sybil nodded. “Yes. She gave it to me a long time ago. For protection.”
“Your sister is wise. Please. We must go now.”
“Where are we going? What’s going on? Just and Galina spoke as if you had a hand in this.”
“They do not know everything. Please, we must leave here. The fighting has gotten worse. Your wounds have already healed, but the poison will slow your mind for a time. If we do not hurry, we will be buried beneath the rubble of this temple.”
“Where… where were you?” Sybil asked. She could not think clearly. Elation, grief, and poison fogged her mind.
“I was in the offices consoling two of Nikom’s children. When I heard the noises in the hall, I told them that I must go see what happened. They attempted to restrain me. The older one claimed I was ‘little more than an ancient hag, propped up by the power of the First.’” Mother seemed amused by that.
“Where are they now?”
“Close to my heart.”
“I do not understand.”
“Please, daughter. You must stand.”
Sybil lay her apprentice gently on the floor before she forced herself to her feet.
“The younglings, they have started a revolution,” Sybil said.
Her mother supported her weight.
“Yes. I believe so.”
“I need to find Galina. She will need my help. We must find her daughters’ killer.”
“No, my daughter, Galina can handle herself. You must go somewhere safe. I have put a lot of work into perfecting your aspect and it cannot be tainted further. Soon the Blood Call will take you as it did the Smith, and you must be away from here before then.”
“Tainted? What do you mean perfecting? Mother, where am I going?”
“There.” A strange disk, adorned in light, appeared in the wall before them. The image of a barren landscape hung within the disk, shrouded in a thick fog. No air passed through the portal. The image was pristine. “Do not inhale there. You will need to adjust your eyes to see properly. Your skin is tough, it should withstand the chemicals.”
“But this is forbidden,” Sybil said.
“I have forbidden it because of the danger in the hands of the ignorant.”
“But how will I return?”
“Once Death has been restored and the Call has been broken, I will come for you, but until then, I cannot take the risk. It will be lonely there, but do not fret. I have given you a fresh slate. There, you will be free to create. I have given you a world to build as your own. You will not be bored.”
“Why? What are you trying to force me into?”
“I do not force you. I have simply guided you into the role the pantheon requires.”
“And what role is that?”
“If I tell you, you will not find it on your own. You will be tainted.”
“Then Just and Galina spoke true?” Sybil asked.
“They do not know everything. Do you trust me, daughter?”
“Of course.”
“Then you must go now.”
Sybil nodded then looked to the body of her apprentice. She knelt before him.
“My daughter…” her mother began.
Sybil lifted the corpse. “Will you tell his mother that I have given him a proper burial? Do not tell her how he died. Please. He does not deserve that.”
Her mother nodded. “You are better than most of us, Sybil.”
Sybil stepped to the portal and walked through. A small weight lifted from her body as the clouds buried her.
“Sybil.” The voice stretched behind her as if from a great distance.
She turned to the portal. “Yes?” The sound seemed muffled.
“What was his name?” the Mother asked, her form framed by a silver-lined hole in the air.
Sybil looked down at the boy’s face. Small drops of condensation had formed in the corners of his eyes and mouth.
“Gemm,” she said.
CHAPTER ONE
Five hundred years after the Fall of the Mother’s Temple.
A boy no more than fifteen years
, stood alone in the street. Dusk had already fallen. A glow came from the tavern on the corner, an old building, built of wood over a stone foundation. The squeal of a flute swept outward from its doorway along with the scent of fresh bread, and an old, dry draught.
The carpenter across the way was at her window, lighting a candle, and the village smith sat on his porch smoking a pipe. A girl was chopping wood in the front yard of the house next door. Although the fire that normally burned in the worn clamp and chimney was missing this night, a strong, smoky scent hovered in the air.
A broken axle and a broken leg had left the girl without timber and the last load of charcoal had burned out days past. Another fire burned in its absence.
Still, the smith would get his coal this week. The scribe, he would not need it.
The boy gazed into the inferno before him. A pool of light spread outward, the shadows of a freshly painted fence dancing in tune with flames. Darkness fought with light in a battle of violence and endless lust. Reds, oranges, blues, and even hints of green fought for dominance. The shadows dodged and twisted, fighting for scraps and hollows. Soot rained and the shadows claimed their prizes, patient yet eager. The shadows knew they would win eventually, so had no need for worry. In time, the boy would make both his ally.
He could feel the warmth. The flames crept higher. He did not back away. Like the shadows, he had no fear. He kept his hands at his sides, closed in fists, as was his custom. A smile touched his lips. There was beauty before him; a swirling mass of chaotic elegance. He knew in his soul, that this was right. And the Well approved. It made its claim.
The flute, and now the thundering of a drum, met with the crackling of the flames to create a ceremonial dirge that hummed in his ears. He watched. He listened. He closed his eyes to feel the warmth and watch the light dance upon his lids. The pleasure was almost overwhelming.
Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One Page 3